Sweet Like Candy to My Soul
by scullystarlight
Summary: For the Valentine's Fic Exchange on Twitter — She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he's fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip.


Title: Sweet Like Candy to My Soul  
Author: Nikayla  
Pairing: Mulder/Scully, MSR  
Set During: Season 4 cancer arc, though there's very little acknowledgment of it

What a way to spend Valentine's Day. Not that it really amounted to anything that different from how he normally spent it, with no girlfriend to speak of. But being caught in a blizzard at the tail end of a lackluster case, forced to stay holed up in a motel room when stepping foot outside ran the risk of coming back with icicles for eyelashes was still fairly low on his list of fantasy holidays. Were it not for the redhead whose room his adjoined to, he might have actually gone completely stir-crazy here, in a town he'd never have chosen to visit otherwise. But about said redhead.

On Hour 5 of their forced confinement there was a small rap at the door separating their rooms, the ravishing creature responsible inviting him in to hers to go over the field report she'd been typing away at. It was a welcome reprieve from flipping through the three different channels he'd managed to pull in, each one not much more than a snowy reflection of the blustering weather just outside.

Entering her room he was greeted by a handful of new sensations. The room was warm; probably no more than his but it had a sort of inviting air to it that his stale quarters lacked. Though that may have had more to do with the room's inhabitant than whatever temperature she'd set her thermostat to. Second, the room smelled infinitely better. Again, something easily attributed more to his partner herself, as there were no candles, incense or the like around to have accounted for it otherwise. And then — there she was.

Casual Scully wasn't something he got to experience very often. Even in a presumably casual setting she was still often found in a tailored jacket at the very least, if not a full-blown FBI regulation suit. Doing a very unregulated job of hugging her in ways he shouldn't let himself take note of, but was guilty of nonetheless. But here in Nowhere, North Dakota, stuck in a crappy motel, Casual Scully had made her way out since he'd last spoken to her.

Wearing leggings and an old chopped up t-shirt, with her hair half clipped out of her face; a few wayward pieces breaking free to dance at her cheekbones, though he could hardly fault them for that. It was an indiscretion he himself had been guilty of; breaking away from propriety at times, indulging himself in sweeping the backs of his fingers along her cheek, hidden beneath a guise of either comfort or kindness — brushing a strand of hair from her face before she's even noticed it had fallen out of line. Casual Scully made it more difficult than usual to resist staring, his gaze lingering in all kinds of ways inappropriate for interoffice partnerships. It was this fact that led him to notice her ten little red painted toes — the only sign he could see of her acknowledging the occasion.

As he surveyed the rest of the room he noted the mat set out just beyond the foot of the bed. She'd taken up yoga a number of weeks before — she'd told him as much, but this was his first actual glimpse into her new ritual. "I was just about to do some stretches," she mentions offhandedly, before doing a much less off-handed job of whipping her t-shirt over her head, revealing a sports bra to match her workout bottoms. "_Be my guest,_" his voice does a terrible job at parroting her tone, sounding deeper and fuller than intended; though thankfully, she doesn't seem to notice.

Retiring to the relative safety of the table in the corner of the room, her report left open on her laptop's screen for him, he once again took the opportunity to spend more time watching her than paying attention to the work in front of him. He looked on with a kind of silent fascination — watching her small but strong form leading itself from one stretch into the next; muscle molding beneath skin. The vision she presented proved far more enticing than words on a screen, and he indulged himself deeper into this welcome distraction.

"Mulder?" Her voice rings out, and he's certain he's caught; that the old pretending to read a file gag has failed him. As fate would have it, he's safe, with her gaze still angled away from him while his has lingered both inconspicuous and yet carelessly — he's read maybe 12 words of this file and none have been subsequent. "_Can you tell me if my back is straight?_" She sounds forthright yet idyllic; an odd combination given the situation, but he's not one to question it.

"Pretty close." He answers quick, too quick — too obvious that he hadn't just looked up when she spoke but had been following closely along as she moved from stretch to stretch. He has no idea their names but he can recall in perfect clarity exactly how she looked in each of them.

"Can you adjust me?"

A lump threatens to overtake his throat at her request, strangling his voice before he can cover it with a cough. "_Shr_—uhum—Sure Scully." Moving to join her, kneeling just beside her prone form, he's all at once taken aback by just how small she is. Tough as nails, his Scully, and yet no bigger than a sixth grader. Her size betrays her strength, he knows. He's witnessed it. He could even say he's witnessing it now, as she holds herself in a plank position, muscles taut and straining but strong; powerful. He knows she could knock him out if she ever wanted to. Hell, sometimes he wishes she actually would.

"_Am I close?_" Once again she pulls him back from whatever internal fantasy he can't seem to let go of; her voice holding a focused innocence his can scarcely claim.

"_You tell me._" Having overcome the lump, he sounds more wanton than anticipated. "Sorry...bad joke." Deciding it would be best to move things along quickly before she can have a reaction, he finally takes in her position from a — _fleetingly _— objective mind. The next stretch requires a straight back, he tells himself clinically; easy enough. A warm hand lands against her and he marvels momentarily at this new perspective. He's touched her here almost every day and yet seeing it — seeing the way his hand almost spans her right the way across, how fair and soft she is beneath her suits, the faint smattering of freckles that decorate the area... He doesn't realize just how long he's fallen silent; staring, cataloging, until her voice shakes him back to reality once more. "_Mulder?_"

"Sorry," he mutters absentmindedly, and moves on to the task at hand.

He's gentle with her — not that he needs to be; but the compulsion is there all the same. He's delicate as he maneuvers each area, setting her shoulders just so, pressing softly against her mid-back to correct the slightly convex curvature there. Reaching her lower back again he is struck just as he'd been the first time, summarily distracted from his task of righting her spine's position; lost within the creamy expanse of Scully skin. He feels more than hears her intake of breath when his fingertips gently wander down her vertebrae, re-misaligning her upper back, requiring he correct it once again.

"Sorry." She mimics him from before, and her voice holds a quality he somehow can't quite pinpoint; a borderline somewhere between distraction and...something else. Continuing where he left off, he passes over her lower back, memorizing the curve without the hindrance of fabric to interrupt his mapping of her. Her spine is slightly bowed here, dipped inward from the posture she's trying to achieve; and he realizes the only way to actually right this is to reach beneath her, palming her stomach to ease her into alignment. He leaves one hand behind to provide a counterbalance, the other bracing itself just over her navel, feeling the rigidity in her abdominal muscles as he finishes repositioning her.

"_Looks good to me._" There's no way to disguise the way his voice has lowered since he last spoke; an all too obvious indication of what touching her could do to a man. He can't help noting how she looks to be fairing no better, with a slight tremor visible in her stance as she attempts to control her breath. "Thank you." Her voice shakes just as perceptibly as she is; slight, but it's there. She holds the stretch for a thirty count, and he's made no move to leave her side even when she's finished. She drops a knee to the mat and lets out a languished breath, then turns to sit facing him. Neither has said a word for the last minute or more, and electric molecules buzz in the air like the flurries just outside her window.

She swallows thickly and he can hear the faint smack of her lips when they part to take another breath. Suddenly he's fascinated by those lips. Wholly immersed in their plumpness; the flush of their coloring, the shine left behind when she nervously licks along her top lip. Even more suddenly he's consumed by a need to touch those lips, his hand reaching her face before he's entirely realized the whim — fingers skimming along her jawline as his thumb whispers underneath the protrusion of her full bottom lip. Her mouth closes on an 'M' that doesn't end up forming anything more.

Her eyes are deadly focused on his, though his own have taken up a residence alongside his thumb for the time being. He watches diligently at the way her lip gives under the insistent pressing of his thumb; her breath a hot little cloud moistening the digit along with her lips. Growing braver or perhaps just more foolish, he moves up, to fully experience the satiny impact of her lip head on — feeling her breath shake all the while she allows him this great indulgence. And indulge he does.

"What made you take up yoga?" He asks as though he isn't currently tracing his partner's uniquely perfect pout. But a very unpartner-like behavior only breeds more unpartner-like conduct. She swallows again, the action parting her lips once more; though his thumb has still yet to leave their pillowy expanse, simply moving back to outlining the brim of her lower lip once more. His fingers have taken up a more serious attachment to her jawline, and he makes no indication of removing them to make this any easier on her. He can see the mix of shock dancing in her eyes — shock at what he's doing, perhaps even shock at herself for so freely allowing what he's doing, and shock that he's chosen _this_ moment to ask about her exercise habits.

She swallows again and he can feel the sensation just below his fingertips where they graze against her throat. Her lips look as though she's going to question him. 'Mulder what are you doing?', 'Mulder why are you touching me like this?', 'Mulder why haven't I stopped you?'. He silently prepares himself for — he wouldn't call it rejection, but it will certainly end up feeling that way. He's in this just as she is; shock mixing around his mind, at his own audacity, brazenness, at her lack of rebuff until now. But she surprises him yet again — her voice coming out with what looks like a great effort to remain unaffected, but ending up sounding altogether very, very affected.

"_It was suggested to me..._" His Scully is stronger than any man or woman he's ever known. Her fortitude astounds him almost daily, but no more than it does in this moment. Perhaps later he'll tell himself it was that fortitude that spurred him on — a voiceless challenge to rattle those fortifications, push past those braces before she shores herself up impenetrably. Yes that must be the reason he finds himself tugging her closer, his hand having moved to the back of her neck before he fully realizes it; but how can anyone expect anything of him when he's just felt the first brush of contact of her lips and his? She draws in a quick gasp of breath at the connection, which he's almost certain amounted to little more than drawing in his exhale; CO2 invading her lungs as his tongue makes its first bid at invading her mouth.

All at once she lets him, even meets him halfway; her tongue colliding with the wet intrusion of his — a first kiss to end all others. It's slow and soft, yet achingly erotic. This suddenly sensual creature before him never fails to surprise him. Thinking back he could argue that she's always been sensual — wholly feminine, more beautiful than he'd allow himself to acknowledge — never wanting to reduce her to a mere sensual being, when she was that and so, so so much more; most especially to him. But _the kiss_ — the kiss cements her in his mind as an utterly beautiful, utterly sensual woman. He'll be hard-pressed to extract her in any other state now, with the way her hands have suddenly clutched into his t-shirt, leveraging herself closer to him; he'll be hard-pressed indeed.

"_Mulder..._" his name finally makes it out, but not like he expected. It isn't 'Mulder what are you doing?' it's 'Mulder keep doing what you're doing or I'll shoot you again.' Okay maybe not exactly that, but his mind has a mind of its own now and it's decidedly run away with him. Taken whatever it was that held him back from her for this long and blown it sky high. His hands reach for her waist and pull her in a swift, clean motion; her slight weight flying across the short distance between them until she's in his lap, knees pressed in to the carpet and lips at a much better angle for him to kiss. She draws in another quick breath at the relocation, but seems just as appreciative to be closer now than just in arm's reach. Her hands are in his hair and she's flush against his chest, and she's just as intent on keeping this going as he is.

A soft, little sound escapes her lips and goes right to his groin. _A moan, you idiot_ — his brain tells him late. _You just made Dana Scully moan with a kiss_. The realization suddenly brings a smile to his lips, which makes a momentary mess of their kiss. But then she's smiling too, as though his were infectious and she's caught it — lock, stock, and barrel. The only cure is to kiss her deeper, drawing another mewling sound from her throat, which makes the same trek downwards just as her hips shift above him. They both feel it — the palpable inevitability of what comes next if they don't stop this now. His heart lurches at the thought of stopping anything they're doing right now, and she must sense it; allaying his fear in a single phrase.

"_Bed now._"

Her words come out fast, almost too fast for him to register initially. He hears them late, but his body seems to have a mind of its own too; already having gathered her up, mere milliseconds from depositing her on the bed before it registers that this is what she asked for — her body receiving his with a contented sigh. Her legs wrap around his waist and he's trapped; locked in to her embrace and he's never felt better, safer, more accepted than he does in this moment. Scully has always accepted him, accepted his faults, his penchant for running off; she hates it but she accepts it all the same. She doesn't seem to be hating this now though, when he rolls his hips and makes contact against her, she certainly doesn't seem to be hating this at all.

The friction throws a wrench into their otherwise picture-perfect kiss. They have a rhythm developed already; born perhaps out of dancing around one another so close for so long — it's instinctive. They know when the other needs a breath, and when breath is the least of their priorities. A kiss; deep, and long, is of much greater importance right now, and he's chosen then to throw her off her game. Her fingers clench tighter into his hair, as though to steady herself — he's caused yet another misalignment from touching her this way, and it's his responsibility alone to fix it.

Without warning he breaks the kiss completely; her eyes fling open and her breath dislodges from her chest on a sudden outward journey. But it's just as quickly pulled back in; his lips have only relocated — dropped to her throat to do a more than satisfactory job of kissing her there. He feels her begin to melt beneath his ministrations, turning to magma beneath his lips; molten hot and percolating at his touch. She is in sharp contrast to the rage of weather still outside; all but trapping them here, and at least partly responsible for setting this in motion.

His hands finally take initiative to do the same; moving from her waist to engulf her breasts, causing another moan to plant itself in her throat, and her teeth to bury themselves in her kiss-swollen lip to prevent it from fully surfacing. This only proves to spur him on more. He wants that moan — wants to hear it full force; feel it vibrate his very being and know he was the cause. He finds her nipples through Lycra fabric, kneads at them with his thumbs as his hips drive into hers on a soft roll; and that does it. The moan breaks free and she clutches him tighter. The moan sounds like his name and when he repeats the motion again, it is. "_Mulder._"

He decides then and there his name has never sounded better, and likely never will again.

She begins to writhe beneath him, growing impatient and only more aroused the longer he takes to give her anything more than petting through material. But he isn't quite done with it yet. One hand leaves her breast, much to her dismay. She tells him of such with an impatient whimper and an almost painful grasp of his hair. It turns to speaking when his hand moves between her legs; a supplication to God himself, and he's almost tickled that he's caused her to bring Him in to this.

He strokes at her clothen center — the scorch of her emanating through the layers still between them, bordering on incendiary. She writhes again and her hand joins the one still at her breast, grapples at him until he grips her tighter; a vision of desperation he will never get out of his head. He decides suddenly, to put her out of her misery. His hand slinks past elastic and cotton, and finally touches the flaming ember between her thighs. Three large fingers stoke her very core, eliciting the most beautiful moan he thinks he's ever heard; three parts pleasure one part repose — it says _finally_, something more substantial.

The pads of his fingers run up and down the length of her, yet to focus on one place. For the time being it seems to be enough for her; as she lets her soft, mewling sounds leave her lips freely now, and tells him in a kind of Morse code through her tightening and loosening grip on his hair when and where it feels just right.

"_Get this off._" He plucks at the perimeter of her sports bra, suddenly aware that he has still yet to see her breasts and that that simply won't do. He sits up just enough to give her the room required to remove it but not so much as to break the connection of his hand between her legs. She seems most appreciative of that fact, and rewards him with a cross of her arms and a tug of fabric; the bra is lost beyond the bed and her breasts are finally free — her panting breath causing them to rise and fall gently, somehow making them appear even more enticing. "_God Scully._" It's the only reaction that comes to mind. Give it up to the big man, if he really is up there; if he really is responsible for these perfect, cherry-tipped breasts before him.

His hand returns to her first — molding along her flesh in a way he'd be lying if he said he never thought of doing before this moment. But as most merely imagined things are, it's better than he ever could have predicted. She's soft but firm under his hand; warm, welcoming flesh accepting his touch ardently. She flushes under the weight of his gaze and grasp on her — a pretty, pink tinge trailing out across her skin. But despite the blushed hue she is still his immutable partner. "_Need this off you._" She grabs for his t-shirt and he's forced to let go of her to aid in her removing of it. It's narrowly out of sight before she's clutching at his flesh, dragging him back down to her; to her waiting chest and lips. Her hands encircle as much of his back as she can reach, fingers press in to lines of muscle and tendon, and the nails of one hand light sparks along his scalp — actions all intended to draw him close, closer; keep him there, keep him kissing her — as if he would stop unless it were her express wish that he did.

His thumb sweeps along the side of her face, this time needing no excuse or wayward tendril to do so. She hums in contented recognition of the overt tenderness of the gesture; kisses him earnestly, matches him equal in her tenderness, as though he deserves nothing less. His heart clinches momentarily, at the thought that she could love him. That on this day of love and bad greeting cards she'd choose to receive the former from him, and return him hers in commensurate measure. He peppers kisses along her cheeks, her jaw; drawing a giggle out of her the likes of which he's never heard. He can't resist retracing his steps to kiss her effervescent mouth — to hold some of her laugh inside him forever, as once it entered him he would never surrender it to the harshness of the world ever again.

Her fingers trace a blazing trail down the column of his spine, ending somewhere near his mid-back as she runs out of arm length to reach any further. Diminutive, he's reminded; and as if she senses his thoughts through some tongue convertible telepathy, she uses her strength to flip him onto his back. Her eyes sparkle — diminutive my ass, _Agent Mulder_. His petite, achingly pretty partner has finally knocked him on his ass; and she looks particularly proud of herself for doing so. Her hands reach for his belt and it's game on again. No more verbose silent soliloquies written like odes unto her beauty. At least not for the moment.

With his belt gone she makes quick work of the button and zip of his jeans; extricates herself from him, much to his dismay, but it's only in necessity to remove the garment, and drop it in a muffled denim thump onto the carpet. Her leggings are next to go; her hips wiggling side to side as she works the snug fabric down her toned, peaches and cream colored legs. He sits up swiftly before she can deal with the rest herself — he wants this privilege; wants it burned inside his very eyelids, so on every blink he gets the split-second reminder, of just what it was like to strip Dana Scully of the last of her underthings.

He sits at the edge of the bed with her fixed between his legs. He kisses the curve of her waist, drags his mouth along the path to her hip, takes her waistband into his teeth and softly snaps it against her. She laughs again, softly; and tangles a hand back into his hair. She indulges his monumental levels of patience even while she has no such monuments of her own. When he finally raises his hands to grasp and pull the fabric down her legs she lets out a sigh; something between relief and a dash of apprehension. There's no going back now.

He kisses along her sternum but his eyes are decidedly skywards. But this time he's not looking to the sky for intangible spacecraft hovering above — he's looking to _her_. He holds her in place with the weight of his gaze alone. It says to her that this is about you, us; not just him or what lies between her legs. She dips down just enough to kiss him, with the softest kiss they've yet to share. The impossible pillow of her lips accepts his own in a cradle akin only to a cloud. He is truly discovering unidentified objects here; flying along with her to light the way.

Her lack of patience has finally begun to catch up with her; and she tugs at the top of his boxers, the turgid, solid length of him breaking free. His shorts have barely reached his calves before her hand has grasped the fullness of him; taking up a slow, rhythmic manipulation of flesh that leaves him burdened with a desperate sort of longing to surge up into the vise of her grip.

"_Scully—"_ His hands take up a similar vise grip of her waist; the rest of his sentiment conveyed only through the fervor in his eyes. Now it's her turn to put him out of his misery — when she's in his lap again and the heat of her is engulfing him inch by solid inch. His lips find her breast as she adjusts atop him; accepts him all the more than she's already done. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders as she works her way down, back up and down again; each time taking more until he's buried totally inside her and never wants to come back out.

He kisses her again and swallows up her humming; the soft sounds she's begun making as she sets out a rhythm with him. His hands hoist her gently by the hips to aid in her cadence, and pull her back down in parallel motion; sinking deeply into her waiting warmth and besetting a quiver into her pliable construction. Her rhythm starts to falter even with his helping hands, strength waning as pleasure takes a stronger hold.

"Mulder..." her bliss-racked voice beseeches him; so he rolls and moves them back up the bed, lets her take residence up below him once again, drives his hips into hers like before but this time the connection is palpable — sweaty and authentic, and he's in rapture all the more. He looks on in fascination at his length disappearing into her — sees the flush creep back in all over now; a full body blushing and he just has to see her face. She's grown pinker and more wanton since he's switched their positions, enjoying her view of his form just as he is hers. They share a lust-addled smile before he's on her again; kissing her hungrily as his hips roll and smack into hers in a delicious dizzying stroke, touching places within her that make her break the kiss to moan and wriggle before just as desperately returning to his lips for just a bit more.

His hands engulf her breasts again; thumbs thoroughly titillating her pert nipples until she's using any leverage she has to thrust her hips downwards to meet his halfway — anything to tear more pleasure from their joining. Her sounds have been reduced to mere whimpers now; hands clutching desperately for a hold, something to keep her on the precipice, anything to feel like this just a little longer. He stops the overstimulation he'd committed to her breasts, instead focusing on a caress of her hips, her waist, the middle of her chest and even up to her throat. Whatever he can do to extend her pleasure, he'll do it. He changes the angle of his hips slightly and she all but yelps. "Right there, Mulder—_God_." His thrusts steadily hit her in just that spot and she's quivering again — teeth chattering, nails digging in to his flesh, her voice growing higher and more desperate than he's ever heard her. His own pleasure is fast surfacing; a wave ready to break on the rocks at any moment, barely holding back but using all his remaining strength to do so.

The inevitable is approaching; fast, and faster still. He knows she's close but still needs something — that final push into oblivion, and he finds it with his thumb. He smooths the pad of it along her apex, unearths the diamond of nerves at her medial and rubs circles against it until she's convulsing internally; spasming around him in the most beautiful fashion, and then he's spilling over too — cresting white waves against the beach, her name on his lips like she were a prayer. And God, for him. She is.


End file.
